


Hedging Your Bets

by Darkrivertempest



Series: Visiting The Burrow [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gambling, Humor, Mild Language, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a rusty, beat-to-hell Ford Anglia...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_artemis](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Blue_artemis).



> Written for Blue_Artemis at the 2013 Bill_ficathon on LJ.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my betas: Sotia and Unseen1969 - you ladies are awesome!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers, JK Rowling, or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Charlie Weasley was a patient wizard.

It was practically a requirement, given his profession. One couldn’t just bend a dragon’s will to one’s own; they had to be coaxed, and that meant treating them with the utmost respect and patience.

Humans, on the other hand, were a species that utterly baffled him. They were silly buggers, the lot of them. If a dragon fancied a mate, he would fight to the death to acquire that mate, ensuring the strongest genetic profile would be passed on to their progeny. If a human fancied someone, they tended to act like disinterested prats. Charlie often wondered how people managed to procreate.

Take, for instance, his brother, Bill. Bill, who was invigorating, dramatic and daring, along with being provocative, stressed and a bit shocking. After all, hadn’t he married a French quarter-Veela while he himself was on the verge of howling at the moon on a monthly basis? Granted, the marriage hadn’t lasted long, and Charlie hadn’t expected it to. Though they still cared for each other and their split was amicable, their personalities and backgrounds differed greatly. They had been divorced more than a year, and still Bill pined for her. Fleur, on the other hand, had had no trouble going back to France and taking up with an obscure wizard who’d once worked with her parents. Charlie expected to hear of their impending nuptials any day now. 

And Bill? He had resigned himself to working with Gringotts, completing curse-work that could have been dismantled by even the most novice apprentice—nothing worthy of the skill he’d mastered. Charlie had the uneasy suspicion, though, that Bill was just biding his time before he returned to Egypt. If that happened, Charlie imagined it might the last he saw of his brother in a very long time, and while the family already considered _him_ a wild child, Charlie didn’t think they could handle having both him and Bill so far away. Not anymore.

Keeping in mind his brother’s happiness, and a favour he owed a certain witch who’d saved his arse at a crucial moment, Charlie began to formulate a plan that might just stun two dragons with one spell.

* * *

“Thanks fer comin’, Bill. Poor mite, been sittin’ here shaking all night, he has. Didn’ know who ter call, ’cept knowin’ it was yer dad’s pet.”

Bill tilted his head to study the rusty, beat-to-hell, shuddering form of the 1959 Ford Anglia that had apparently rolled its way into Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. “Not a problem,” he said affably. 

A growling and clunking sound issued from the car, before the bonnet lifted, belched out a billowing cloud of white smoke, coughed and spluttered until it became silent.

Hagrid’s eyes widened in fear. “It’s not—”

Bill shook his head. “I’m not sure it can die. Dad had it charmed so heavily, I doubt anything or anyone, could make it stop working. I mean, it survived the Whomping Willow, didn’t it?” He peered at the Muggle machine parts that comprised the engine, another puff of smoke making his eyes water. “Bit of a mess, though.”

“A bit,” Hagrid agreed after a cough. “Thought yeh might see ifen there were a curse, or sumptin’.”

Several waves of his wand later, Bill frowned and crossed his arms. “It’s not magic-related, whatever it is.” He pointed to the hinged cap on the side of the car. “It doesn’t run on petrol, so that’s not the issue.”

The light-blue car whined pathetically as the ignition tried to turn over. Bill patted the top of the small vehicle, murmuring soothing words. He ran his hands along the frame, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary… well, out of the ordinary for such an item. The tires were still inflated, though bits of muck and debris were stuck against the wheel wells. One of the headlights was broken, so he quickly fixed it. The boot opened of its own accord after Bill tickled the lock, revealing a bird’s nest or two and what looked like the skeleton of a raccoon. Inside the car, there were several tears to the fabric on the seats—most likely made by talons of some creature in the Forbidden Forest—along with twigs, moss, and one very brassed-off squirrel that chattered at him. 

“Why is that squirrel being cheeky with you?”

Startled by a feminine voice beside him, Bill thumped his head on the roof of the car. “Bloody…” He rubbed the back of his scalp and glared at Hermione Granger, who was barely concealing her smirk.

“I thought the boys were exaggerating when they said they were rescued by a car in second year,” she said, peering around the interior of said car. “It’s in rather shabby condition, though. How is it done, then?”

“Thanks, my head is fine, by the way.” Bill winced and became exasperated when he noticed that Hagrid had conveniently disappeared. 

She pulled her head out and glanced at the spot he was rubbing. “You’ll live. You’re not even mildly concussed.” She returned her gaze to the Anglia, her eyes alight with curiosity. “So, tell me how the magic works.”

Perturbed to be dismissed so easily, Bill crossed his arms and leaned against the car. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I?”

She rolled her eyes. “So I can help you fix it, of course.”

“How do you know it needs fixing? Not that it does, mind you.” 

“Oh, please.” She once again studied the car. “Why else would you be at Hogwarts? You don’t have any more siblings here, so you’re not visiting anyone. You’re not a professor, so there are no classes you would be conducting. And, if the gossip from your family is to be trusted, since your divorce, you’ve not been doing much, which leads me to believe you wouldn’t have more important things to do than look at your father’s tinkering. Seeing the smoke pouring out from the bonnet, I surmised the car must be… sick or cursed, which, of course, leads me back to my original conclusion of your being here to fix it.” 

Bill’s lip curled into a mocking sneer. “Have it sorted out then, do you?” He didn’t know why he was irritated with her analysis; it wasn’t like she’d been wrong on any account. It just grated that everyone seemed to know how pathetic his life had been for the past year.

Her smile faltered until it drew into a thin line. “I just thought—”

“Well don’t. Why are you even here?” He gave her a pointed, lengthy perusal. 

Hermione seemed to shrink back a fraction before notching up her chin in proud defiance. “I’ve been the Muggle Studies professor for two years, which is more than you’ve managed to make of your own life thus far. Really, Bill, I’m sorry for the dissolution of your marriage, but even _I_ could tell that Fleur Delacour was a shameless flirt, without the Veela blood to enhance her charms.”

“Don’t you dare speak about her like that!” he growled, his hackles raised. “You’re not even in the same league with her!”

She arched a brow. “I should hope not. I would prefer that someone liked me on the merits of my brain, not how much cleavage I showed. I suppose in her case, one attribute must compensate for the lack of the other.”

Unbridled fury skittered up Bill’s spine, his muscles rippling with the want—no, the _need_ —to instil fear in this puny, insignificant human. He knew the gold of the wolf tinged his irises. Fingers curled into his palms, he advanced on Hermione, stalking towards her, menace radiating from his presence. He thought only to cow her into submission, to press her against the nearest tree and make her capitulate to his will. But when she showed not the slightest trepidation from his display, and had even rolled her eyes when he snarled, his steps faltered. How was she not frightened of his more animalistic tendencies? Fleur had always been so careful not to incite his baser needs, yet here was this slip of a witch, glaring him down as if he should be afraid of _her_. 

“Are you through?” she asked, peevishly. 

Agitated and confused, he stopped just short of where Hermione stood. How was she not affected by his demeanour? She was still the same witch he’d seen years ago at his wedding: determined, focused, head full of bushy brown hair, a little on the gangly side, though the intervening years had given her more of a womanly curve. He knew she had been involved at one point with his brother, Ron, but that had fallen to the wayside, as many young romances had the tendency to do. Now, she gave the impression she’d devoted her life to academia, finding books and logic to be better friends than actual people.

Leaning forward, he inhaled deeply and her scent washed over him. It was complex, made up of recently laundered linen that smelled faintly of lavender, old parchment, and… there! Just barely there, a faint trace of false bravado. She was not as unaffected as she appeared to be. He smirked. “Are _you_?” he murmured, his voice low and rumbling.

This threw her off-balance, he could tell; her gaze shifted to something over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

He moved closer and lowered his head until his nose was just under her right ear. “Are you through being defensive?” he whispered. “Are you through throwing facts and observations at me, in an attempt to deconstruct what you think you know of my life?” He pressed against her skin, his teeth barely scraping her neck. “You know nothing of me except what my family has told you. And they don’t even know the half of it. They don’t know what it’s like to crave blood, to have those you care about be afraid you’ll shred them to pieces at the next full moon. To constantly yearn for something you can never have.” At this, he nipped her flesh and secretly delighted when she startled, but didn’t squeal or shy away. “You think Fleur ensnared me—beguiled me. Don’t you?” When she didn’t acknowledge his words, he licked the slightly raised red mark on her skin, which earned him a whimper. “What would you think of me, if I told you that it was me who enchanted her? That I lured her with the promise of bettering her grasp of the English language?”

“Then I would say that was the reason she became proficient,” Hermione breathed. 

Bill chuckled, and watched the vibration raise gooseflesh on her neck. “Quite.” He snapped his teeth just short of the tendon straining towards him. “So, before you think me some weak-willed sop who pines away after my ex-wife, remember that I know how to play the game of seduction just as adeptly as any Veela.” He withdrew, took a step back and leered at her. “Without the need for any enhancements.”

There was a furious blush of monumental proportions tinting Hermione’s cheeks. “Apparently,” she managed. She cleared her throat and tucked a stray wavy strand behind her ear. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She took a few steps back and turned to leave.

“Hermione,” Bill called before she could get very far, “I could use your help with this.” He nodded to the car. 

She bit her lip, a sure sign of contemplation. “Why?” 

Though he’d wanted to even the pitch earlier, he knew she was defensive for a reason. He knew most people had ridiculed her intelligence, including Ron, but he had always found her mind and logic fascinating, refreshing. Most Muggle-borns took years to acclimate to the wizarding world, but not Hermione. She’d taken to it like a Hippogriff youngling takes to the skies—unafraid and soaring like an eagle. He valued that adaptability. What he didn’t appreciate was the way she was testing him, lobbing insinuations to keep him at bay. He’d like to think he was not like most wizards, that he could accept anyone. She really had nothing to fear from him, in that respect. His asking for her help would hopefully let her know that he wasn’t actively trying to alienate her, just that her assumptions had been wrong.

“Because as the professor for Muggle Studies, I’m sure you have a few tricks up your sleeve that might be of use in this case,” he said with a wry grin.

Tentatively, as if afraid he was about to rescind his offer and laugh at her audacity, she made her way over to the car and peered at the engine. “Does it run on petrol?”

Hiding his smile, Bill shook his head. “Dad charmed it to never need it, though I’m not exactly sure what else a Muggle vehicle needs to work.”

She poked and prodded several parts with her wand, huffing in consternation when her hair kept falling into her face. Without much thought as to what he was doing, or why, Bill picked up a couple of twigs and transfigured them into ebony chopsticks. He then pulled the heavy hair off her nape, twisted it into a bun, and secured it with the chopsticks.

Hermione had gone deathly still while he did this and, when he was finished, gave him a sidelong glance and a slight nod. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I hate using spells on my hair.”

“I imagine they tend to make it coarse and dry.” 

“Yes.” She looked surprised. “How did you know?”

He gave her a lop-sided grin. “Not all of the Weasleys are of the male persuasion, you know.” His smile dropped when he thought of his ex-wife. “Plus, Fleur tended to be a bit high-maintenance. I tried to help her once, when her hair was wet. I had cast a spell just as she screamed at me not to.” He shook his head, laughing a little. “She complained the rest of the day, bemoaning the fact she looked like a Bichon Frisé.”

Clearly unable to help herself, Hermione tried to stifle her giggle, but failed miserably. “I can only imagine.” Still letting the odd chuckle escape, she returned her attention to the various pipes, hoses and containers that made up the engine. 

Though he wasn’t sexist, Bill did wonder if Hermione knew what she was looking at. “Are you familiar with—”

“My father had a fascination with Muggle automobiles, specifically older models,” she said. “And I was naturally curious.” She leaned over, twisted off a black cap, then stuck a long rod down inside the hole. “I learned as much as he could teach me.” She pulled the metal rod out and presented it to Bill with a frown. “It needs oil.”

He was unsure why she was showing it to him, but feigned an interest and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Erm, what kind?”

She snorted. “Motor oil. It’s used in internal combustion engines. Lubricating oil creates a separating film between surfaces of adjacent moving parts, to minimize direct contact between them. Heat caused by friction is decreased and wear reduced, thus protecting the engine. It also cleans, inhibits corrosion, improves sealing and cools the engine by carrying heat away from moving parts. Considering the Anglia has been meandering in the forest for several years, I’m surprised it hasn’t needed the oil before now.” A violent belch, which produce a thick, white plume of smoke, confirmed this theory. “Definitely in need of oil.” She coughed.

The acrid fumes made Bill’s sensitive nose twitch. “I’ll take your word for it.” He waved his wand and the smoke dissipated. “Where do we get this ‘motor oil’?”

“Well”—she sighed, hands on hips— “I would normally say to conjure some, but I think it would be better if it was the original product. Sometimes transfigured or conjured items don’t work well with Muggle inventions.”

“I know. Dad would go through several same-generation items at a time, testing what would work and what wouldn’t. I think this Anglia was the fifth one he experimented with that didn’t explode.” 

“Mmm, makes sense.” Carefully, she lowered the bonnet until it snapped shut and gave it a gentle pat. “I think it’ll be safe for this evening. We can go into Muggle London tomorrow and see what they have to offer.”

Bill was about to ask, ‘why couldn’t they go right then?’, when he noticed the oncoming twilight. Had he really been out there that long? His stomach rumbled an affirmation that it was indeed near the evening meal. 

“Dinner is about to be served up at the castle, if you’re interested,” Hermione said, adjusting her teaching robes to their proper position from where they had slid down her arms. 

He had meant to decline; it was getting late, Apparating to Scotland from Cornwall had been draining, and he was sure she had plenty to do for her classes. But, the thought of going home to the empty cottage, where the constant crash of the surf amplified just how alone he was, had him reconsidering her offer. “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”

She smirked. “You know it is. That means fish and chips tonight.”

“And raspberry trifle,” he added, licking his lips. “I think I just might.”

Her gaze dropped momentarily to his mouth, then back to his eyes. It was the briefest of glances, but Bill noticed her skin flush before she turned away and started the long trek up to the castle entrance. He followed her at a discreet distance, avidly watching her backside sway beneath her robes.

* * *

“Ah, the wayward son! Come home to the flock, have you?”

Bill cuffed Charlie on the side of the head. “I think that applies more to you than to me.” He pulled his brother in for a tight hug, buried his nose in the crimson curls and breathed in the familiar scent. When he let go, he gave Charlie a curious look. “What brings you to Hogwarts?”

Charlie clapped his shoulder. “Research, if you can believe it.”

“You’re right, I can’t.” While it wasn’t a barefaced lie, Bill could tell it wasn’t the whole truth, but he decided to let it slide.

“That’s what I told Snape,” Charlie said evasively. “I told him no one would believe me if I said I was here for research.”

“Why are you talking to Snape?” 

Charlie shrugged. “Like I said: research.” He grinned mischievously. “I couldn’t tell anyone we were really shagging.”

“Bloody hell! Are you?”

Charlie gave him a dry look. “No!” He opened his mouth to say more, but his gaze shifted and became riveted to the woman that walked past them. “Medusa’s snakes, is that… Granger? Life was certainly kind to her!” 

Bill slapped him upside the head again. “Could you say that any louder? I don’t think the Merpeople heard you.” 

“What?” Charlie rubbed his scalp. “Can’t I admire an amply endowed witch when I see one?”

For some reason or another—that Bill would never admit—his brother’s appreciation of Hermione rankled him. Sorely. Subconsciously, he manoeuvred himself in front of Charlie’s line of vision, blocking the sight of the retreating witch. “Look elsewhere,” he said in a low tone.

Charlie’s brows rose into his hairline, and grinned roguishly. “Like that, is it?” 

“Like nothing.”

“I say otherwise, brother.” Charlie dared to peer over Bill’s shoulder. “I bet she has this look in her eyes when she’s com—”

His words were cut off, as he was violently shoved back into the rough stone. Bill placed his forehead against his brother’s. “Don’t.” It was a mixture of a plea and a warning. “Don’t do this.”

Charlie put his hands on Bill’s chest and shoved just as hard, dislodging him. “Do what?” He smirked. “Granger looks like she could use a good shag.” He dodged Bill’s swipe. “I’m in the country for a while.” Feint to the left, avoiding Bill’s fist. “Think I fancy a chat with her.”

Bill had always been closer to Charlie than any of his other siblings. They had a bond like no other—disturbingly intimate at times. Charlie knew when to push and when to retreat when it came to Bill and his personality. That preternatural perception increased after Bill was wounded by Greyback, as if the wolf had become more appealing and intuitive to Charlie. But right now, Bill was not seeing the wizard before him as his brother; he was seeing him as competition—and why that mattered was dangerous on a whole other level. 

“She isn’t interested,” Bill gritted through his teeth, trying and failing to grab hold of Charlie.

“You’re getting slow in your dotage, old man.” Charlie easily avoided a head-lock. “And how would _you_ know if she’s interested or not? I think I should ask.” He manoeuvred around his brother and sprinted across the hall.

The moment Charlie broke away was the moment Bill’s bit of insanity had waited for. Spurred on by the chase, Charlie had no way of stopping the violent tackle that landed him on his back with Bill straddling his hips. 

Bill bent low over the prone form of his brother and actually growled. “Stay away from Hermione Granger!”

Charlie gave him a mutinous glare. “No.”

Bill slammed his hand on the ground next to Charlie’s face. “She means nothing to you. You will use her and then forget about her. She deserves more than that!” His words were audible only to Charlie.

“You think she deserves you, do you?” Charlie sneered. “Fleur left you lifeless. Bet you can’t even get a rise out of your prick anymore.”

Quicker than his brother could draw his next breath, Bill’s teeth held Charlie’s jugular captive. The threatening noises and the increasing pressure had Charlie swallowing several times. Just as Bill’s teeth broke the skin, tasting the blood upon his tongue, Charlie relaxed fully.

“Surrender,” Charlie hissed. When Bill released him, Charlie shoved him off and glared. He put his hand on his neck and it came away bloody. “You great arse!” 

Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It could’ve been worse.” He turned and spat out the remaining blood, unsettled by the taste. “Don’t be such a manipulative git next time!”

“Fuck off!” Charlie paced, and finally decided to heal his wound with a quick _Episkey_. 

Knowing the atmosphere was charged with too much aggression, Bill stepped back and straightened his shirt and jacket—by no means relinquishing his position on the subject of Hermione. “Like I said: stay away from her.”

Unfortunately, because Charlie was a competitive sod with a temper to match, this only fuelled his anger. “Like hell!” A fanatical light shone in his eyes. “I bet I can shag her before you even find the balls to chat her up!”

Bill gave him a feral smile. “Too late. Already did.”

The expression on Charlie’s face was odd. “You shagged her already?”

“No, you arse; I’ve already had a nice chat with her. In fact, we’re going to London tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” Charlie licked his lips and rubbed his chin. “An outing to London doesn’t guarantee you a chance to get in her knickers. I still say I can shag her before you do.”

“She’ll see right through you.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, dear brother.” Charlie’s voice was syrupy sweet. “Prove to me you’re the better wizard, and I’ll be at your beck and call for the next three months.”

“I have several weeks’ worth of chores with your name written all over them. And if I lose?” Bill tentatively asked, trying to bury the insecurity that clung to him like a limpet.

Charlie’s lips thinned. “Doubting your charm?” He pointed at Bill’s ear. “Your fang earring. That will do quite nicely.”

Bill grabbed at the charm dangling from his right ear. It had brought him countless years of fortunate luck, and he hadn’t been without it since he’d first put it on. Not once. He stroked it possessively. Was it worth losing? He glanced into the Great Hall, where the evening meal was well underway, and noticed Hermione looking for someone in the crowd. When her eye finally alighted on him just outside the massive doors, she nodded reluctantly. 

“Done,” Bill said with no more hesitation.

“Done,” Charlie echoed, satisfaction lacing his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

Bill and Hermione stood on the corner of Kingston Road and Burleigh Lodge the next day, staring at the garish red and yellow colours adorning the auto care service station. 

“Are you sure they sell what we need for the Anglia?” Bill asked, his tone dubious.

Hermione chewed on the corner of her bottom lip. “Doesn’t the name of the place say it all? _National Tyres and Autocare_. I’m quite sure they have oil for the car.”

Bill nudged her shoulder, smirking. “You just guessed, didn’t you?”

Pink tinged her cheeks, though it was a rare warm, sunny day. “It’s been ages since I worked with my father, so it was an _educated_ guess.”

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Well, let’s just say I feel better about your ‘educated guesses’ than most people’s facts.” He knew he’d said the right thing when a shy smile bloomed on her face. Offering her his arm, he nodded in the direction of the garage. “Shall we?”

* * *

Bill had no idea what they were searching for, other than motor oil, but looking at the multitude of bottles littering the shelves, he knew it was going to be a lengthy endeavour to choose one that would actually work for the Anglia. According to the instructions on the back of one bottle, if he used the wrong kind of oil, it could… _lead to reduced lubrication and shorter engine life_. Or, according to the two Muggles arguing at the end of the aisle, if he used the wrong weight motor oil in an engine, it was possible to destroy said engine due to lack of lubrication. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uneasy in the unfamiliar environment. Normally, he wouldn’t have such an issue, but he was off his game, his skills rusty. The overwhelming scents of diesel, rubber and something—oddly enough—akin to maple syrup, was not helping, either. He buried the urge to swipe at his nose in a bid to rid himself of the morass of odours. They combined to form a sickly smell that coated everything in the shop, distorting the scents of the Muggles, Hermione and… 

“Hello, brother dear!”

Bill groaned and clenched his teeth in annoyance. “What’re you doing here, Charlie?”

Charlie glanced at the long line of motor oil containers, smirking. “I just happened to be in the neighbourhood. Saw you and Hermione, thought I’d tag along.”

“Did you?” Bill bit out with a side-long glare. “How convenient.”

Charlie shrugged. “I thought so.” His gaze shifted over Bill’s shoulder, and his smirk morphed into a devious smile. “Very convenient.” He grabbed a bottle off the shelf and sprinted towards Hermione.

“Pillock,” Bill muttered and grabbed a bottle as well. 

“Charlie!” Hermione squealed.

Bill grimaced. When he rounded the corner and saw them in a crushing embrace, his stomach dropped but his lips curled into a sneer. “You two seem awfully cosy together,” he observed, disdain tinging his words. 

Perhaps he should’ve taken Hermione’s guilty look and quick step back from his brother to heart, but all he could see past the ire building in him was that Charlie was still holding onto her by the hips, not letting her go. It made Bill clench his fists in an effort not to do his sibling permanent damage.

Charlie had to have noticed the action. He released Hermione and then swung his arm around her shoulders to pull her tight into his side. “Herms and I go way back.”

Bill didn’t miss the look of irritation on Hermione’s face. He figured she would be one of those people who didn’t like to have their name butchered for the sake of brevity. This assumption was confirmed with her next words.

“Charlie, I told you I hate that name,” she gritted out and disengaged herself from Charlie’s grasp. “But yes, we’ve known each other a long time—the same amount of time I’ve known all your siblings.” She glanced at Bill and gave him an enigmatic smile.

Bill couldn’t help but laugh at that. Charlie had always wanted to be special, separate from the rest of the Weasley brood, especially in the eyes of others. That Hermione had grouped him with the rest of his family would rankle him like nothing else, Bill was sure, and Charlie’s next actions proved it. 

In an obvious attempt to pull Hermione’s attention away from its focus on Bill, Charlie thrust the bottle of motor oil in her face. “I found the one you need. It says, ‘long life’,” he purred suggestively.

Hermione took the container, her eyebrows inching their way into her hair. “Erm, I don’t think so.” She politely gave it back to him, her cheeks a bit red. She gave them both a pained look and quickly disappeared around the corner.

Bill snatched the bottle from Charlie before the latter could hide it amongst the others on the shelf. He read the label: _FUCHS—Titan Supersyn Longlife SAE 5W-30_. “You gormless prat!” He shoved the bottle at Charlie’s chest. “You think she’ll be grateful enough for the subtlety you’ve spectacularly failed showing with that little stunt, that she’ll tell you to lie the fuck down so she can show you how it’s done?” He snorted and raised his hand, as if to smack Charlie, but suddenly let it drop to move in close, crowding his brother against a product display. “Just… Don’t inflict your crass insinuations upon her.”

“Like pining for her from afar is doing you any favours,” Charlie taunted. He tried to push past Bill. 

“I’m not pining for her.” 

Bill refused to budge, and Charlie manoeuvred around him, sending him a scathing look. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” He didn’t wait for Bill to answer in the affirmative. It was always disconcerting how much Charlie saw… how much he _knew_. “At least I have the bollocks to pursue something I want.” He turned and made his way through the aisles, obviously looking for Hermione.

Bill didn’t argue with Charlie’s assessment; he _hadn’t_ slept last night, his mind constantly turning over with regards to his actions towards Hermione. While he hadn’t given serious thought to the reason for the impromptu wager with his brother, he now reconsidered the motives for Charlie’s pursuit. Bill had no doubt the wild, slapdash ways Charlie clung to would not appeal to Hermione. But, when he had glimpsed her reaction earlier, she seemed genuinely charmed by Charlie’s presence. What was the depth of that affection, though? Bill perceived it to be deep enough that it made him uneasy. He didn’t necessarily consider it ‘pining’, but he recognised the behaviour pattern in himself that had led up to his plan to woo Fleur. 

He gnashed his teeth against the urge to bite something. Hard. He was bloody well fucked, that’s what it was. But—and this was small consolation indeed—Bill had abilities that Charlie couldn’t hope to duplicate. Utilising one such tool, he lifted his head and inhaled deeply, sorting through the cloying myriad of scents until he honed in on the one he wanted. He followed the trail until he found the object of his—desire? Lust? Affection? He had no idea what to categorise the emotion as. She and his brother were in deep conversation. 

Billed cleared his throat, to get Hermione’s attention. “I think I found the one we want.” He handed over the container with an orange logo on it.

A wide smile broke out on her face, transforming her appearance in some small way that enchanted him. He couldn’t put his finger on it; the closest he could come to labelling the feeling was pride. 

“Vitaflow 10W/30 Motor Oil,” she read on the back of the bottle. “Approved official Ford of Britain lubricant for Ford Anglias. Bill, this is exactly what we need! I knew you would find it!” Did her eyes just sparkle? Oh, yes. Yes, they did.

Bill didn’t need to look in Charlie’s direction; he could imagine the thunderous look his brother cast his way. Hell, he could feel it! The pheromones were practically clouding the air around them. Time to raise them a notch, perhaps?

Tugging on Hermione’s arm, Bill led her away from Charlie and towards the register. “I was thinking that you might enjoy a nice picnic by the Black Lake, once we finish with the Anglia.” He nodded at the sunny sky outside the shop. “I don’t think we’ll get many more days like this before the cold and rain set in, and I know Mum has some left-overs from last night’s family dinner. It would make a splendid basket of mouth-watering, delicious food.” 

Hermione placed her items on the counter and gave him a heart-warming smile. “That sounds lovely, actually. I happen to have this weekend free and was wondering what I would do with myself. I rarely find time to indulge in simple pleasures.”

It made his heart ache a bit that it hadn’t garnered the attention of anyone how much she seemed to be overworked, maybe even a tad frazzled. He dismissed the thought, however, when he realised he could be the very one to care for her as she deserved. He felt lighter at hearing that spending time with him would equate to a pleasure. He was about to ask what she would prefer from his mother’s kitchen, when Charlie nudged him aside.

“Sorry, love, but I’ve got to fly. Important stuff, you know.” Charlie grabbed Hermione by the waist, pulled her close and snogged the hell out of her before releasing her. “I’ll catch you on Sunday, yeah?” He winked and quickly left the shop.

Hermione and Bill wore matching expressions of shock and irritation in the wake of Charlie’s departure. “What’s happening Sunday?” Bill bit out before he could control his anger.

She blinked a few times and blew out a harsh, flustered breath. “Ah, Charlie wanted me to go flying with him around the Quidditch pitch.” 

Bill whipped his head around to glare at her. “You hate flying. You’re scared of heights.”

Her chin rose in defiance. “Yes, what of it?” She paid for her purchase and headed for the door, not waiting for him to follow.

He caught up with her before the door slammed in his face. “If you’re afraid of heights, why are you going flying with him?”

She pinned him with a heated look. “Not that it’s any of your business, Bill Weasley—because it’s certainly not—but did it ever occur to you that I wanted or needed to overcome my fear, and that such an exercise might bring that to fruition?”

“But I could teach you to fly!” He cringed at the whine in his voice.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bill, but Charlie’s skill on a broom far outweighs yours.”

Oh, that stung! “The reckless git is more likely to put you in dangerous situations than teach you to deal with your phobia. Did you know he failed his Apparition test? Twice? The first time, he materialised on a Muggle woman doing her shopping. The second time, he passed out. It takes about three times for the stubborn idiot to learn anything and make it stick. How many times will you let him drop you before you realise he’s really not concerned with helping you overcome your fear?”

Her disconcerted look gave him hope. “I—I didn’t know that. About the Apparition test, I mean. Three times?” She had a decidedly green hue about her when Bill nodded. “Well, erm, I’ll have to think on that, won’t I?” She fidgeted with the sack in her hands. “We should get back… if you still want to have that picnic.”

He might not have convinced her fully to avoid Charlie, but at least he had instilled quite a fair amount of doubt, hopefully enough to prevent her from actually taking to the skies. “Of course I still want to spend time with you,” he said in a low tone, deliberately choosing his words for full impact. 

And they did not disappoint. She flushed prettily and looked away. “Let’s get the Anglia squared away, then.”

He gave her an almost feral grin. “Yes, let’s.”

* * *

The Anglia had been practically giddy with the deluge of oil they had poured into its empty reservoir, even tooting its obnoxious, flat-sounding horn in thanks as it revved to life and puttered away back to the forest. Bill thanked Hermione profusely for her help and she followed him to the gates of Hogwarts, where he Disapparated with the promise to return quickly with a hamper full of fiendishly good food.

Several hours later found them relaxing with the early autumn breeze drifting over the surface of the Black Lake, creating small ripples in the water that lapped against the pebble-strewn shore. They sat on a red and white checkered blanket, a few yards away, several empty plates and dishes between them. 

Hermione had unfettered her braided hair, giving the wavy locks their freedom, sighing in relief when they were blown off her shoulders by the occasional strong gust. She was dressed in Muggle jeans and a lightweight dark-blue jumper, having opted not to change from their foray into Muggle London. Bill was dressed similarly, in jeans and a jumper. He was leaning back on his elbows, his face upturned to the sun, relishing the warmth and the company. 

“You miss Egypt.”

“Mmm.” That was one of the things he liked about Hermione—she observed others, observed how things worked and used them to her advantage. A bit Slytherin, if he were honest, but he found that rather stimulating instead of calculating. She did not set out to wound people with her insight, and perhaps that was the difference. He opened one eye, grinning at her. “I miss the heat, not the sand. Merlin, not the sand.”

She grinned back and it made his heart stutter. “Got into everything, right? No crack was safe, I bet.”

He sat up and waggled his brows. “None at all. It’s why I never understood the Muggle fascination with the term, ‘sex on the beach’. Seems it would be bloody uncomfortable; clenching your arse together to prevent wet sand from crawling up your bum and into all your other orifices while at the same time trying to give someone the shagging of their life without simultaneously rubbing their, or your, skin off.”   
“Oh, Merlin! The visual!” She laughed, clearly trying to avoid snorting, but failing. “I have this image of you rubbing sand all over yourself, proclaiming loudly, that you’re exfoliating, stuck in my head!” She doubled over, her body shaking with laughter.

Instant hunger flooded his veins when his imagination was quick to reverse the situation she posed, visualising Hermione rubbing the sand all over his skin. He dipped his head and was silently thrilled when she ceased her laughter and tilted her head to the side, allowing his nose to brush against her neck. “So, do you often imagine me in such scenarios?” he whispered.

“Not usually,” she said softly. 

Her eyes were closed, her breathing heavy, but he could tell she was not alarmed—quite the opposite, in fact. This intense closeness was the sort of thing that would’ve sent Fleur into a panic, this feral edge about him and his fierce desire to smell, touch and taste everything that intrigued him. Yet, here was this Muggle-born witch, who had more cause to fear his kind, having seen and dealt with Greyback on numerous occasions, sitting here still, waiting and silent. She didn’t feel threatened—not if the overpowering scent coming from her was any indication.

That scent was more like… anticipation. 

It made the shadow of the wolf that lived just beneath his skin practically howl with joy.

Slowly, he nuzzled into the warm crook of Hermione’s shoulder. He moved his lips over her soft flesh, gently teasing the pulse there with circles of his tongue. Her sharp exhale and almost silent whimper had him skimming his canines along her jugular, delighting when her cheek grazed his. He was about to nip at her throat when he was suddenly jerked away and dangled in mid-air, Hermione’s scream piercing his ears.

“Bloody fuck!” he snarled.

Bill hoisted himself upright as much as he could, his eyes widening when he saw that an obscenely large tentacle was wrapped around his left ankle. Water sluiced down his legs. His gaze followed the length of the slimy, suction-cup covered arm to the lake, where several other tentacles were splashing around, one even inching its way towards…

“Hermione!”

Bill didn’t have to say more than that; she snatched her wand from its sheath on her hip and brandished it with the skill that made her one of the lauded Golden Trio. “ _Confringo!_ ” she shouted at the Giant Squid, and quickly caught Bill with a hasty, “ _Levicorpus!_ ” before he could hit the ground.

The Blasting Curse hurled the giant mollusc through the air, and the creature landed on the far side of the island where Dumbledore was entombed. When it was safe, Hermione lowered Bill until he was able to stand once more.

“Thanks,” he muttered, wiping the water off his face. He didn’t know whether to be mortified that he had been caught unawares or irritated that they had been interrupted.

She frowned at his tone. “It’s very odd that the Giant Squid was out today, especially since it was sunny.” Her gaze searched the vast area of the lake. “Normally, they can’t tolerate the sunlight. I’m surprised it can actually stand the pressure or the salinity here in the Highlands, but this _is_ Hogwarts, and stranger things have happened.”

Bill lifted his leg and pulled up the cuff of his jeans to study the red sucker welts that mottled his calf. After retrieving his wand, he cast an Episkey to heal the injury. “Yes, well, I’ll remind him that he’s supposed to be a deep-sea-dwelling cephalopod the next time I see him, hmm?”

“There’s no need to get snippy,” she huffed. 

“I’m not ‘snippy’; I’m fucking brassed-off!” He hadn’t realised he was shouting until he saw her eyes widen. Great. Just great. All that headway into making her feel safe around him, and he blew it when the beast from countless fathoms appeared. He sighed in frustration. “Sorry. I’m just… sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the picnic.”

“You didn’t. I was rather enjoying the day, despite the handsy calamari.” Hesitantly, she moved close, plucked something off his shoulder and handed it to him. “Think anyone would notice if there was fried squid on the menu tonight?”

He looked at the long ribbon of kelp that had apparently been attached to his back. There was a slight pause before they were both laughing so hard at the ridiculous events, they had to lean against each other to keep upright.

When their mirth eased, Hermione cleared her throat. “I’d better get back to the castle; it’s getting late.” She turned to look at the horizon, the colours of the setting sun painting the sky in fantastical hues, mirrored by the surface of the lake. “I really enjoyed today.”

Bill’s heart clenched at the forlorn tone in her voice, as if this had been the only day she could relax, or as if she were… lonely. But that wasn’t true. Though Bill was loath to remember, Charlie was set to get her up in the air the next day, so it wasn’t like she lacked company. He knew he would have to counter Charlie’s move the next day with something even better than a mere picnic—something that he excelled at and would snag her interests.

He shifted close and smiled to himself when she didn’t move away. “What are you doing this Friday?”

She gave him a bemused look, as if she were trying to puzzle him out. “Why?”

The temperature had dropped dramatically, and he noticed it once he covered her hand with both of his larger ones. “The British Museum has a fantastic Egyptian exhibit on display,” he said, chaffing her chilled skin to warm it. “I might happen to know one of the assistants to the County Archaeologist that led that last Egyptian investigation in Deir el-Bahri.”

He could practically see the drool forming at the side of her mouth. “Then I can safely say that I’m not doing a bloody thing on Friday. When do we go?” Her excitement was infectious

“Who said I was inviting you?” he said teasingly, arching his eyebrow. 

“But… but that’s where they found the mummy of Hatshepsut!” she spluttered. “She had a longer and more prosperous reign than Cleopatra. I _need_ to see that exhibit!” Had her lip just wobbled? “Please?” Oh, hell. It had, and there was a fascinating flush spreading over her skin. 

It wasn’t ruddy, like Fleur’s had been, but leaning towards a deep maroon, something that complemented Hermione’s golden skin tone. And bugger it all, he needed to stop comparing the two witches, or he’d send his mind round the bend in short order.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said with a wink. 

He was not prepared for her squeal, nor for her to launch herself into his arms, squeezing him tight. When she buried her nose against his neck, murmuring ‘thank you’ over and over, he nearly lost his balance. Her legs slid around his waist, and he felt her cross her ankles at the small of his back. The effect was immediate.

“Fuck,” he growled, his fingers digging into her hips to keep her immobile. If she moved a fraction, she would definitely feel the hard bulge in his jeans, and at this stage, he didn’t know if that would frighten or excite her. Either could be disastrous for him at this point. He tried to pull her up and away from his body as carefully as he could manage, but she kept tightening her arms around his neck. “Hermione, you need to let go.”

She loosened her limbs enough that he was able to finally remove her body from his. When he set her away, her expression was muzzy, dream-like, as if she wasn’t truly conscious of what she had been doing. “Hmm?” She looked down at him, her eyes alighting on his ‘problem’, her cheeks flaming crimson. “Oh, Merlin! I’m so sorry!” She covered her face, shaking her head. “I—I didn’t mean…”

He tugged her hands away and pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t,” he breathed. “Don’t be sorry.” He lifted his head and pressed a tender kiss to her brow. “At least, not for this.”

“All right,” she murmured, a small laugh escaping. “Should I consider my ability to arouse enthusiasm the greatest asset I possess, now?”

Her lovely smile made his insides twist and her words made them burn. Unable to withstand the tension any longer, Bill took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. He could smell the moisturiser she had used on her face, the lilac scent that clung to her hair from her shampoo, the tannin of the tea that they had drank during the picnic—all of it coalescing into one perfect kiss. A soft, breathy exhalation escaped from her when they parted.

“You arouse much more than enthusiasm, Hermione,” he replied quietly, rubbing his cheek along hers. “You stimulate me in every way.” 

“If I configure up a Fibonacci sequence to mathematically show why you appeal to me, may I have another kiss?” she asked, her eyes half-lidded. 

His throaty laugh diffused the rising tension. Only Hermione would be romantic and logical in the same breath. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “Pyramids of Giza, love—I work with the Golden Ratio all the time.” Knowing he would press for more if she was near, and knowing it was not the time for such a thing, he set her apart from him, squeezing her hand reassuringly at her hurt expression. “Now go, so we can have another on Friday.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her jumper, but she gave him a small smile and nodded. “Thank you, Bill. I really did have a lovely day.”

He placed his hand over his heart and gave her a half bow. “You made it all the more lovely, Hermione.”

A wide grin and a profuse blush lit up her face before she turned and made her way along the trail that led to the castle. Bill watched her until she disappeared from sight. He soon pursed his mouth into a sharp line. 

“You can come out now, you bastard,” he snarled into the evening air.

A splash of water sounded before a deep chuckle. “Wondered if you could smell me.”

Bill looked over his shoulder as Charlie slogged his way from the beach to where he stood. “I guess I should be grateful you didn’t have the Centaurs stampede through our picnic.”

Charlie swung his soaking wet arm around his shoulders, tightening his grip when Bill tried to move away. “Wouldn’t have worked; they like Hermione too much.”

“You asked them, didn’t you?” Bill rolled his eyes at Charlie’s sheepish look. “It would serve you right if you ended up on the wrong side of one of their crossbows someday.”

Charlie snorted. “Never happen. They like me too much as well.” He winked at Bill. “What did you think of my timing?”

Bill was trying _not_ to think of anything when it came to Charlie and his propensity to muck up Bill’s attempts to woo Hermione. “I think you should be reported to the Department of Magical Creatures for abuse.”

“Why? It was only—”

“I hope for your sake the squid is still alive after the hex Hermione threw at the poor bugger.”

“Damn.” 

Bill shrugged off Charlie’s arm. “Yes, you never seem to think about those kinds of things before you rush head-long into something, do you?” He bent low to gather the picnic supplies and shrink them to fit inside his pocket. “You don’t consider the people that are left behind to deal with and clean up your messes.”

“That’s not fair!” Charlie shouted to Bill’s retreating back. “I don’t ask anything from anyone! Why do you think I left as soon as I could?”

Bill whirled around. “So you wouldn’t have to be beholden to anyone or anything!” he thundered. “You speed off to Romania when it suits you, leaving a trail of chaos in your wake. You work when you want. You wake up whenever you bloody want. You shag whomever will have you. The only responsibility you have is to yourself. What kind of fucking life is that, Charlie?” Before his brother could answer, Bill pointed to the castle. “She won’t have that lifestyle, I know she won’t. And if you do to her what Fleur did to me, so help me…”

Charlie crossed his arms, a sour look on his face. “So help you, what?”

Fists clenched, Bill gritted his teeth in a vain bid to keep from snapping at his brother. “So help me, I’ll wash my hands of you. End of story.”

“You don’t mean that,” Charlie scoffed, though his expression wasn’t so sure of this statement.

“The hell I don’t!” Bill shouted, the sound sending a flock of starlings from their perch. 

Charlie’s face fell, a look of utter devastation marring his features. 

Bill felt a claw ripping into his heart, twisting the pain into something insidious. He blinked several times and stepped away, practically running from his brother… and the idea that he had promised to choose a woman over the closest of his blood kin.


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn’t spying. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. 

Bill grimaced when he heard Hermione’s shrieks from high above his location underneath one of the Quidditch grandstands. He honestly couldn’t tell if they were cries of excitement or of genuine fear and so, every time he heard one, he had to quell the urge to rush headlong out into the open, hoping to catch her in time. 

“Charlie, no!”

Bile rose in Bill’s throat at the horrific images that flew through his mind—specifically the ones conjuring Hermione’s mangled body upon the ground. He had one foot on the path that led to the pitch when her nervous laughter followed her screams. It was torture just listening to them; he wasn’t actually brave enough to open his eyes and watch the spectacle. He was about to retreat into the shadows once more, when his sensitive ears pricked up at Hermione’s tone.

“Stop, Charlie! No!”

Pure instinct propelled Bill from his hiding spot, only to see an erratic flying duo on an out-of-date broom, weaving in and out of the Quidditch hoops. Charlie was laughing his head off, and even from his position, Bill could see Hermione was clutching the broom handle in front of her in a white-knuckled grip. As Charlie flipped them upside down to make the same route, she tried to kick him, but her aim was wildly off and threatened to unseat her. There was nothing remotely enjoyable for her about this experience, at least from Bill’s observations. 

He considered his options, then reconsidered them. There was nothing for it, he reasoned. Lifting his wand, he cast _Everte Statum_ on Charlie’s broom, quickly followed by an _Aresto Momentum_ focused on Hermione. The ensuing scene was quite comical.

Just as Charlie was about to enter the largest of the hoops, his broom came to an abrupt halt, though Charlie did not. Instead, he went sailing through the goal, sounding the gong of a point scored and landed outside the arena on the grassy hillside, screaming and cursing his bloody head off. Poor Hermione was left hanging at the edge of the hoop, desperately trying to keep herself descent by shoving down her long skirt to cover her now-bared thighs and calves. Bill noticed she had extremely shapely legs, muscular—not thin—and, dear Merlin, why was he thinking of her legs when she was hanging upside down from his spell? After mentally slapping himself, he rushed to the base of the hoop and gently lowered her until she found her feet. 

She took deep, gulping breaths, her hands shaking as they reached out to hold onto the post. “Th-thank you,” she managed. “If you hadn’t stopped that bloody imbecile, I would’ve seriously questioned your judgment.”

“I don’t know what—”

She waved off his attempts at obfuscation. “I’ve been trying to get him to bring me back to earth the moment he took me up,” she bit out. “The only way he would’ve stopped would be if someone did it for him. You conveniently appeared shortly after the, ah, mishap, hence I concluded you saved my arse from becoming a horrid footnote in the Quidditch section of _Hogwarts: A History_.”

“That would’ve been quite tragic indeed, since the latest volume already has more pages dedicated to you than to Ron, which he used to unceasingly complain about.” Bill cringed as the words left his mouth, and Hermione tensed briefly.

“How are Ron and Lavender these days?” she asked. She leaned against the goal post, toed off one of her shoes and dumped the sand out of it before replacing it on her foot. “They’re on their second child now?”

Bill rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. “Third.” Damn his bloody mouth to Hades and back. Ron and Hermione’s break-up had been messy; shouting from both sides—accusations as well. Bill thought some relationships just weren’t meant to go beyond friendship; if they were forced into an unfamiliar intimacy, something fragile within broke. Much like his relationship with Fleur, for all the good it had done him. 

The smile she gave him was pained. “Ah, well. He always was a bit hands on.” She crossed her arms, the gooseflesh rising on her skin. She looked a bit nervous, as if she were weighing her options. “Did you want to come up to the castle for a—”

A streak of light flew across the sky, ending the spell on the broom hovering above them. It was followed by a bellow that sounded like a dragon’s territorial roar, originating from the gulley below the pitch. “I know you did that, you wanker!”

Bill pulled Hermione to the side, bent low and nuzzled her neck. “Leave before he sees you.”

Was it his fevered imagination that she leaned into the caress? “Why?” she whispered.

“Charlie in a foul mood is not for the faint of heart.”

She tensed and pulled away. “Are you saying I can’t handle him?”

He frowned. “I’m saying no one _wants_ to handle him. Any time he got stroppy, mum and dad would send me to deal with him. I don’t want to see you get hurt. If you can’t handle being around him when he’s obviously in a good mood, then how will you…”

Her eyes narrowed. Oh, no. No, no no… what had gone wrong? What did he say? She had that pinched look on her face like Fleur used to have before she had slapped him. 

“You think because I was holding on for dear life during the broom ride that I couldn’t deal with his outrageous behaviour? That I didn’t have my wand on me so that I could hex his arse back to Romania if he let me fall?” She snorted and crossed her arms, irritation radiating off of her. “You think as much as Ron did of my magical abilities, it seems.” Her hands dropped to clench into fists. “Maybe you should re-read the section on Hermione Granger in _Hogwarts: A History_ , for you clearly didn’t see the information where I conveniently kept Ron and Harry alive long enough to fulfil that bloody prophecy. If I can fend off Death Eaters, I’m certain I can handle your brother!”

“Wait!” he shouted to her retreating form. She didn’t stop, so he sprinted after her, pulling her to a halt by grabbing her elbow. Ire glinted in her eyes, and bloody hell if he wasn’t aroused by it. “If you could’ve stopped him at any point, then why did you wait until I…” Oh, Circe’s toenails, he was a colossal idiot. “You wanted me to rescue you. In front of Charlie, no less,” he surmised with a groan.

He didn’t have time to confirm his suspicion because he was violently pushed to the side. He landed on his arse in the middle of the pitch, and a shadow moved above him.

Charlie’s furious countenance came into view. His face sported several cuts and a large, purple bruise was forming around his right eye. His body was covered in scratches and splotches of mud. Dark red curls were full of twigs and leaves. There was even a chipmunk sitting on his crown, chattering incessantly. Charlie deftly plucked the small animal from his head and gently placed it on the ground, watching it scamper off back to the forest.

“Charlie, are you okay?” Hermione touched his cheek where a particularly deep scratch spread across his left jaw.

He leaned into her touch. “Nothing a few charms won’t fix,” he muttered. 

Never had Bill wanted as a child, a young man, or an adult wizard. Never. He had always been given every opportunity to prove himself—a product, he suspected, of being the first-born child in a family of many, luck of the draw. But now, staring at the blatant affection between his brother and his potential love interest, he wanted. Oh, how he wanted. Wanted that soft touch she bestowed upon his brother; wanted the focus of that care and concern that shone in her eyes; wanted her brilliant and devious mind that complemented his own. Purely wanted _her_.

It stood to reason, however, that the moment he _wanted_ something in his life, the exact time he _needed_ someone—needed her—that life would simply deny him out of spite or principle. Fate was fucked up like that, he mused. 

He felt nauseated looking at the two of them. He was confused; both in the signals he was receiving from Hermione and Charlie’s true agenda. Their scents kept changing—Charlie oozing pheromones that were clearly sexual, Hermione subconsciously responding, but then backing off, then appearing interested again. She would do the same with Bill. But, if his instincts were correct, she had known he was there before he revealed himself and she had waited for him, counted on him to rescue her. What the hell was going on?

Before he could voice his concerns, Charlie stood over him again. “Get up,” he snapped. 

That tone of voice raised Bill’s hackles like nothing ever would. He bared his teeth. “I think you need to back off, brother,” he snarled.

“And you need to stop acting like a fucking wolf in the blaze of mating season!”

There was no pause between the end of Charlie’s words and Bill launching himself at the other wizard. They both collapsed on the ground, a huff of breath forced out of Charlie’s chest from the weight of the impact. Hermione shouted for them to stop, or she was going to hex someone, but Bill didn’t care. He only cared about ending the threat.

Pent-up aggression and emotions poured out of Bill as they tussled in the grass and mud. “Why did you have to come back now, you bastard?” An awkward shift and Bill threw Charlie several yards, only to follow and pounce on him again. “Couldn’t have stayed in Romania, could you? You always expect us to pick back up where you left off, but you never think about how anyone else feels!” Bill straddled Charlie’s body and wrapped his hands around his brother’s throat. Charlie tried to buck him off with his hips, but Bill was stronger, taller, and he used that to his advantage. He leaned over and touched his nose to Charlie’s, fairly certain that the irises of his eyes were yellow, if the look of Charlie’s sudden and real fear were any indication. “She’s mine!” he growled low. “Stay. Away.”

The spell caught him unawares, and the painful sting in his right side was the least of his worries as he went sailing across the field, landing in a heap nearly at the other end of the pitch. Bill rolled onto his back, panting until he let out a ferocious, guttural shout to the sky. Chest heaving, he turned his head to see Hermione help Charlie sit up, casting nasty looks in Bill’s direction. How could he ever have thought she couldn’t handle herself with Charlie? She’d certainly just handled him, hadn’t she? At Hermione’s last scathing glare, Bill turned away with a sniff, heedless of the tear that slid down and into his hair.

He lay there on the ground, staring into the overcast sky for so long that he barely registered the silence. A quick glance showed the field to be empty. Hermione must have taken Charlie to the infirmary or, more likely, healed him herself. The evidence of their scuffle could be seen in the clumps of sod uprooted all over the place. It reminded Bill of the state of the orchard used to be in after he and Charlie had a row in their youth, except now they had Hermione yelling at them instead of their mum. That sent another unwanted tear from his eyes to streak down his dirty face. He would be the first one to tell anybody that Charlie was a bloody force of nature—you either embraced him and his roughshod behaviour, or you got out of the fucking way. It took a special person to withstand Hurricane Charles, but gods, he loved his younger brother to the very marrow, and it damn near killed him to squared-off with Charlie like this.

So why were they practically brutalising each other over Hermione? Bill was sure it was merely a whim on Charlie’s part, but there were instances that made him think that there was possibly more to it than his brother let on. It felt as if he were being forced to choose between his own happiness and Charlie’s. If Charlie truly wanted Hermione, could Bill graciously bow out? The thought made him wince, as did the pain that lanced across his ribs when he tried to roll over. No, best to lay there a bit more. 

He snorted and returned his attention to the clouds that were turning a darker grey. Rain, soon. His eyes closed the moment the first drop hit his forehead. Rain made everything better; it refreshed and brought new life; it cleansed—a chance to start over. Maybe it would be best if he just gave Charlie his fang earring and called off the bet. Neither of them were exactly on their best behaviour around Hermione, and he was surprised that she hadn’t rid herself of their company altogether. He tried to contemplate the thought of seeing Hermione with Charlie in the coming years, such as family gatherings, but once again, it made his stomach roil. No, if he were to give up his pursuit, he would leave England again and go back to Egypt. At least there he wouldn’t have to see their happy faces, their overt, public displays of affection, the smouldering looks sent across a room or dinner table. He shuddered at that last thought. 

When the light sprinkle of rain starting turning into heavier droplets, Bill inhaled deeply, braced himself for the pain and rolled over to finally stand on unsteady legs. Once upright, he retrieved his wand and healed what he could, allowing himself to at least breathe easier. The rain was now steadily falling, drenching his long, dark red hair that was almost the same shade as Charlie’s. He slicked it out of his face and began walking towards the main gate, sparing a glance at Hogwarts. She had been so close, yet was now so far away. The throb of anticipation that had drifted between him and Hermione had dwindled to nothing more than a hollow feeling, fraught with tension—and he only had himself to blame.

Though he could breathe easier the more he walked, it did not stop the ache in his heart.

* * *

If anyone noticed Bill’s odd behaviour the next few days, no one mentioned it. Mostly because he was a snarling, aggressive, chaotic mess of emotions—not that anyone would have dared tell him that. Everyone in his family knew to give him his space when it was clear that he needed it, especially after Greyback’s attack. Charlie had been the only one to ever test that boundary, succeeding where most failed. Bill wisely avoided the Burrow for this very reason, remaining solely at Shell Cottage instead. He puttered, paced and occasionally went running amongst the sand dunes at night, bare-arsed naked, in an effort to soothe his agitation. 

Since that disastrous day at Hogwarts, Bill had buried himself in the work Gringotts had delegated to him in hopes of preventing his thoughts from dwelling on Hermione. It didn’t necessarily work. He dreamed of her, when he was actually able to sleep. He paced the length of the small cottage many times over, thinking of ways to appeal to her sense of logic as to who would be the better choice. His lupine traits virtually overwhelmed him on Wednesday evening of that week, nearly sending him rampaging to the gates of Hogwarts and claiming what he felt was his already. When he had tamped down the compulsion, he realised the moon was waxing gibbous and would be full in two days’ time. The urge would be worse then, and he resolved to be ‘elsewhere’, so that her presence wouldn’t be a temptation. That plan of action crumpled in on itself the next moment, when he noticed the date of the full moon—Friday, the day he had planned to take Hermione to the Egyptian exhibit in London. 

A china bowl full of sugar exploded against the hearth in the cramped kitchen, showering the brick with bits of porcelain and stickiness. Bill sighed in frustration, threaded his hands through his long hair, gripped the ends and tugged, relishing the low-level pain that distracted him for a moment. Merlin, he was such an idiot! Why would he knowingly plan an outing with her on a full moon? He would just have to cancel, that was all there was for it. There was no reason to expose her to his heightened aggression and, to be truthful, his near-uncontrollable jealousy when it could endanger her. But then he remembered how her eyes had seemed to glow with excitement as he'd told her of some items in the exhibit; how she had jumped into his arms; the warmth of her body pressed to his. He groaned and palmed the bulge in his trousers, though that didn’t help. In fact, it was making him barmy, and not in a good way. 

Maybe she’d reconsidered the trip after their disagreement. He snorted to himself. Possible, but unlikely. If he knew Hermione, she would still want to go, even if the company wasn’t pleasurable. He thumped his head against the wall in defeat. He’d promised to take her to the British Museum on Friday, and take her he would.

* * *

Bill entered Hogwarts on Friday morning, his skin vibrating with restrained anticipation. He didn’t know where Hermione’s chambers were located, so he slipped into the Great Hall as some of the students were finishing breakfast. There were a few stragglers at each house table, but he assumed the majority of them had headed out to classes. Only three professors—Flitwick, McGonagall and Trelawney—were still seated at the Head Table, but they looked to be ready to leave as well. Bill scanned the crowd. No Hermione. He was about to search for her, when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

“Looking for someone, Mr. Weasley?”

Bill turned slowly and gave Severus Snape a respectful nod. “Professor.”

Snape arched a brow. “Well?”

Dour git didn’t mince words, did he? “I was looking for Professor Granger, actually.”

Oh, that devious smirk did not bode well. “I’m afraid you just missed her. You see, she scheduled the day off to traipse about London and view the mummified remains of Muggles.” Snape crossed his arms and gave him a patronising look. “With you, if I recall correctly.”

“You do, which leaves me puzzled. Where is she?” The anticipation he’d felt earlier bloomed into an uneasy feeling. “I thought—”

“I overheard a conversation between her and your brother Charles, indicating that you two had come to a disagreement, and that your visit would be postponed. Charles offered to take her instead.” Snape’s smirk curled into something quite wicked when Bill felt the heat of pulse-pounding anger skitter across his skin. “Ah, sibling rivalry. How quaint.”

“I’d tell you to piss off if I didn’t have so much respect for you,” Bill snapped. “But I think you get the idea, just the same.” He turned to make his way out of the castle, when Snape’s words made him pause.

“He’s not for her, Mr. Weasley.”

Bill frowned. 

“Use your instincts instead of fighting them. They will serve you well.” With that bit of cryptic advice, Snape turned and disappeared down the corridor in a flourish of robes.

* * *

Having cloaked himself with a Disillusionment Charm, Bill crept through the British Museum until he reached the Raymond and Beverly Sackler Gallery in Room 64. Once there, he made his way to a men’s loo, removed the charm and returned to the gallery. He was dressed as a Muggle, in jeans and a blue shirt underneath a darker blue jumper, so he mostly went unnoticed as he moved among the exhibits. The area was open, spacious, and full of artefacts from early Egypt that were contained in air-tight glass cases.

He'd barely had time to ponder Snape’s odd statements on the journey to London, but now that he was here, he contemplated them at length while he searched for Charlie and Hermione. 

_He’s not for her, Mr. Weasley._

It appeared that Bill wasn’t the only one who thought Charlie an odd suitor for Hermione. That Snape had observed this as well made Bill realise just how incongruent the two of them were. Why was Charlie being so obstinate about pursuing Hermione, then? On some level, his brother had to have known that his circuitous, emotional way of thinking would not mesh well with her linear, logical path. In some ways, yes, they could balance each other, but they were both too ingrained in their chosen behaviour patterns to change drastically at this stage in the game of life. Bill could only foresee heartache if they continued in this vein. 

_Use your instincts instead of fighting them. They will serve you well._

Did he resist when his instincts told him to go left instead of right? Did he choose another direction, just to be contrary and say that he wasn’t ruled by some animalistic response? Bill came to a halt next to the case housing the limestone stelae of Nefer as an unwelcome realisation made itself known in his mind.

 _All the time._

When given the choice between logic and instinct, he almost invariably chose logical reasoning. He resisted the pull of the moon, the lure of delectable scents, the looming danger. That was why he’d questioned his skill—not the dissolution of his marriage to Fleur, but because she had made him doubt himself as a wizard, as part of a wolf. He might not transform during the full moon, but his senses were just as keen and sharp as any full werewolf. He’d tried to bury that fact to spare Fleur, which had led to the shambles his life had become. 

A shudder ran through his body, and it was if he were shaking off the husk of his old life and letting the new one settle into place. His eyes closed, he lifted his head and inhaled deeply, honing in on the scent that stood out amongst all the others. He rolled his shoulders and set forth on the path towards his future with determination.

* * *

Bill found them looking at the artefact from Tarkhan: a wooden coffin containing the remains of a skeleton. Charlie had a grim look about him, while Hermione practically had her nose pressed up against the glass trying to get a better look. Bill snorted and shook his head, knowing his brother hated ‘dead’ things. He reasoned that was why Charlie was always rushing to and fro in life; to avoid that end to which all humans must come. He had to truly be uncomfortable in this environment. In fact, Bill could see the slight sheen of sweat gathering on Charlie’s forehead. Oh, the delicious irony of it… one that presented an opportunity Bill couldn’t pass up.

They hadn’t noticed his arrival, so he slipped past a small crowd of Muggles on a tour and stealthily made his way to the main attraction in the gallery: the mummy of Hatshepsut, on loan for a brief time from Cairo. He wove several intricate spells, added his own flourish to one in particular, hid behind the granite obelisk associated with Hatshepsut and waited for the excitement to begin. 

He didn’t have to wait long. The glass enclosure surrounding the sarcophagus literally melted away. At this point, no one had noticed any changes, but when the lid to the casket opened with a creak and subsequent thump, a few Muggles shouted which created a cascade effect of inducing panic. A dusty, linen-covered hand slowly gripped the side of the coffin and hoisted the rest of the body to a sitting position. Shrieks of terror began in full force now, and Bill had to stifle his laughter, lest he reveal his hiding spot. When the poor mummy hauled itself from its confines, Hermione and Charlie had finally arrived to see the spectacle. 

“Oh, sweet mother of Merlin,” Charlie whispered hoarsely. He paled several shades, his freckles becoming more pronounced.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her jaw slack as she watched the stumbling mummy head towards them. “It’s not real,” she said, clearly trying to reassure her companion, though her words didn’t seem to be reaching his ears.

Bill watched Charlie swallow several times, backing away the closer Hatshepsut came. “Looks bloody fucking real to me!”

What Bill found wildly amusing was the fact that Charlie was apparently frightened out of his mind, while Hermione seemed to be amused, perplexed and fascinated all in one. “She’s been dead thousands of years, Charlie. Even Nicolas Flamel didn’t live that long with the aid of the Philosopher’s Stone,” she explained with a roll of her eyes. She didn’t look as if she was too worried about the situation, but when Charlie drew his wand and pointed it at the wrapped figure, Hermione grabbed his wrist. “No! You can’t! It’s priceless!”

“I don’t care! It’s dead, it’s advancing towards me and it smells—three very good reasons to make it go away!”

“Don’t be such a child!” she gritted out, trying to wrestle the wand away from him. “Use your brain. Yes, it’s a real mummy, but it’s been animated by a spell of some sort.”

He pulled and tugged at his hand, his panic becoming uncontrollable. “Yes, that’s so comforting, Hermione—it’s a _real_ mummy. Who the fuck is controlling it?”

“I have an idea,” she muttered. 

She didn’t get the chance to voice her suspicions, however, because the mummy had finally reached them and placed a fragile hand on Charlie’s shoulder, freezing both of them on the spot. Charlie’s grip on Hermione’s Muggle coat tightened, his body shaking. A slit in the facial wrappings spread far enough that it revealed a gapping maw with a lone, black tooth. 

“Oh, God,” Charlie nearly sobbed.

A puff of stale, dust-laden air exhaled from the mummy’s mouth, straight into Charlie’s face. His eyes promptly rolled in the back of his head and he collapsed to the floor, practically dragging Hermione with him.

Bill cancelled the spells creating the havoc, but left the mummy in place so that it wouldn’t disintegrate. He quickly caught Hermione around the waist before she landed on Charlie’s prone figure. 

She stiffened briefly before relaxing into his embrace. “Thank you,” she murmured. 

He leaned his forehead against her hair, sighing in contentment for the first time since their fight, the scent of her so close. “You’re welcome,” he said softly. He nosed her locks aside and pressed a kiss to her nape.

A small whimper escaped her lips. “I hope you don’t think that little peck is remotely adequate to fulfilling your promise.”

“Not even close.” His breath stirred the fine tendrils curling around her ears. “I have a lot to make up for.” 

“Mmm. The lengths you’ll go to impress a girl are… unique.” She turned slightly in his arms, looking at him over her shoulder. “Should I expect Scarab beetles to suddenly make an appearance at some point?”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “If they do, you should count yourself lucky; they’re known as the protector of the heart. Family members of the deceased used to place them in the mummy’s heart cavity.” 

“Charming,” she drawled. She extricated herself from Bill’s arms with some difficulty. “We need to clean this up and get Charlie home.”

“Would serve the git right if we placed him in the sarcophagus with Hatshepsut.”

“Bill!”

“What?”

She was trying to quell her laughter, but failed miserably. “Don’t you think he’s scarred enough already?”

Bill snorted and shook his head. “Waking up with a desiccated mummy would be one of the least interesting things that has happened to Charlie in his crazy life.”

“Really?” Her eyes shone inquisitively. “What else has he done that’s scandalous?”

Pulling her along, Bill smirked. “Let me tell you why the Giant Squid likes him so much…”

* * *

Watching from the shadows of a corridor that led to the dungeons, Charlie observed Bill and Hermione practically snog the hell out of each other before her Tuesday classes begun. It had been a familiar scene in the past four weeks, ever since that disastrous trip to the museum. There had barely been a moment when they weren’t touching in some fashion. Discretion was not a part of their vocabulary, either. Charlie was witness to their amorous displays at the Burrow, Shell Cottage, Hogwarts and the Black Lake—to name a few. He’d even heard them giggling like teenagers in the Slytherin Common Room. Considering Bill’s curse-breaking abilities were a sought-after commodity once more, Charlie imagined a few of Gringotts’ vaults had been utilised at some point as well. 

When the pair retreated to catch their breaths, Bill retrieved something from his inside his cloak and pointed to Hermione’s hair. She immediately lifted it and Bill placed something on her neck, his fingers dancing to her nape. As he pulled away, Charlie spied a shiny, green amulet gracing her throat: a Scarab.

“So, the wolf has decided to make a proper mate of her, has he?”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder with a lop-sided grin. “Unlike you.”

Snape arched a brow. “I did not think you wanted such a thing.”

“Neither did I,” Charlie muttered, returning to see Bill steal another kiss from Hermione. “I must admit though, for a pair of daft humans, they make a lovely couple.”

“I’m surprised at the brevity of their courting.”

Charlie let the sly smile curl on his mouth. “I’m not; I had help from Hermione. I always hedge my bets, if possible.”

A hand was placed on Charlie’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Spoken like a true Slytherin.”

“Ha! You wish.”

Charlie noticed Snape’s gaze drift to the pair enthusiastically engaged with each other once more. “You’re right; I’m glad you’re a sickeningly noble Gryffindor. If you were Slytherin, she would have been yours.”

The bet between him and Bill had been half-hearted, at best. Charlie would never tell his brother of Hermione’s involvement—if she wished Bill to know, it would be up to her to tell him. Likewise, neither would ever mention the sham wager for her affections—both liked their manly bits a little too much to risk a hexing. 

Charlie sobered. “Not really. She’s a lovely witch and all, but not really my cuppa. I’m more interested in the dark and dangerous.”

“Are you? I heard you fainted at the sight of a reanimated corpse.”

“Oi! They told you that? Bloody gossips!” 

“Shall we test the ‘dark and dangerous’ theory?” Snape teased.

“I’ll think about it,” Charlie said with feigned disinterest. 

A squeal shifted their attention to Bill, who lifted Hermione in his arms and twirled her once before setting her back down. Charlie smiled to himself. Bill deserved Hermione, if for no other reason than he was a good wizard and brother. 

Charlie turned and followed the man in the black cape, determined to be very, very bad.


End file.
